Chapter 38
Lewis stood guard before the Southern Gate, Thebus and his men behind him, and as the sun rose high in the sky, the heat relentless off this patch of desert, he clenched and unclenched his grip on his sword. It was an old habit, one he always fell back on when danger was coming. And as he watched the horizon nervously, he saw looming the greatest danger of his life.
The rumble was growing louder, as it had been for hours, the horizon filled with a sea of black, infantry marching, hoisting the yellow and blue banners of Bandrania. Behind them came rows of cavalry, and behind these, rows of elephants, rhinos, and other beasts he did not recognize, all ridden by soldiers. The infantry bore all manner of weaponry, and they marched in perfect and terrifying discipline. The clip-clap of their boots sounded consistently, like a heartbeat, minute after minute, hour after hour, never breaking rank, never slowing, never speeding. That was what terrified him the most: the discipline. He’d never witnessed such exacting discipline in his life—especially amongst an army that size—and he knew that didn’t bode well. Discipline like that, combined with numbers like that, could destroy anything. He could only imagine the exacting and cruel standards the Bandranian commanders must have employed to maintain it.
It was as if half the world were marching his way. The rows and rows of soldiers marched across the Fields of Ore, their boots now stomping on the hard, black rock, their armor clanging, each step like a small earthquake. There was no mistaking it: they were all, the weight of the world, marching for the Southern Gate. Right for him.
Lewis turned and looked out at the Sea of Sorrow on his one side, and the Sea of Tears on his other, and he took no solace in the sight. The oceans, too, were full of black, all closing in on him. Escalon was being squeezed, surrounded on all sides. There was no doubt: the great invasion had begun.
Lewis had expected this; yet he had also expected Oscar and his men to be at his back when it happened. The Southern Gate could hold them all back—but he couldn’t do it alone, and he couldn’t protect their flanks without support. He needed Oscar and his men. And while Oscar had vowed to be here, he was nowhere in sight.
“And where is your Oscar now?”
Lewis turned to see Durge glowering back, his eyes cold and hard, stung by betrayal. His men, too, stared back at Lewis with the same dark expression. Lewis turned and glanced over his shoulder for the thousandth time, searching the horizon, the barren plains of Thebus, expecting to see Oscar appear at any moment, with his army, to back them up as he had vowed.
Yet as he stared, Lewis was shocked and crestfallen to see nothing. He had been watching since dawn, convinced that Oscar would not let him down. Never once, in all their years together, had Oscar broken a vow, had he abandoned him. Yet now the sun reached high noon, and no reinforcements had arrived. If they had not come by now, Lewis knew, they would not come. Oscar had abandoned them all to die.
“You vowed,” Thebus said, his voice trembling with anger. “You vowed the men of Thebus would not be betrayed again.”
“Oscar will come,” Lewis insisted, wishing he could believe it.
Durge stared back angrily.
“You cling to dreams,” Durge replied. “The time has passed. We are alone now, left to be killed.”
Lewis hardly knew what to say. Oscar’s not arriving meant his death, too.
“He would not abandon us,” Lewis insisted. “If he does not come, that could only mean one thing: he was captured or killed himself.”
Thebus shrugged, uncaring.
“And a lot of good that does me,” he replied.
Despite the death he saw marching for him, Lewis felt more concerned for Oscar, who was like a brother to him. For Oscar not to be here, he was either betrayed, captured, or dead. And if that had happened, then all of Escalon was lost. They had gambled—and failed.
The reality began to sink for Lewis that Oscar would not come. He would be alone out here, with these few men, to defend the Southern Gate against the hordes of the world.
And yet somehow, as the realization sank in, he felt no fear. No remorse. Instead, he felt gratitude. Gratitude that he could be allowed to make such a final stand in life, that he could die with a sword in his hand, outnumbered, facing the enemy bravely, a just cause behind him. It was all a warrior could wish for. Honor sometimes exacted a price, and this, indeed, was the precious weight of honor.
The marching grew louder. A series of horns sounded, deafening, and Lewis watched as the infantry broke into a jog—and then a sprint. The gap was narrowing; they were now but several hundred yards away.
“I won’t die cowering behind this gate,” Durge said.
Lewis saw his sneer and understood at once, feeling the same sentiment at the same time.
“Open the gates?” Lewis asked.
For the first time since they had met, Durge smiled wide.
“Open the gates,” he echoed.
They turned to their men and nodded, and to their credit, their men opened the gates without hesitation, all apparently thinking the same thing, none showing any fear. They turned the heavy cranks, one turn at a time, and slowly but surely the chains rattled, and the massive gates rose higher and higher.
As it opened high enough, Lewis walked through it, Thebus by his side, two veteran warlords, two men who had seen it all, who had devoted their lives to Escalon. Two men who could command armies in their own right. They stood there, on the other side of the gate, unprotected, side by side, facing off against the hordes charging for them, thundering, deafening. They stood proudly, unflinching, neither looking back.
Lewis heard boots crunching in gravel, and he was proud to see, one at a time, all of his men step forward beside them, on this side of the gate. All unflinching. All doing what they had been born to do.
As Lewis squinted into the sunlight, into the rising clouds of dust, he thought of his life, of his family, of Magandi. He thought of his friends, his children. He thought of Oscar. He thought of Gwen, how much he admired her, how he had always been a mentor to her. And for some reason, of all his final thoughts, he wished that she, above all, would survive. Would live to avenge him.
The hordes neared, hardly a hundred yards away now, the ground shaking, and Lewis drew his sword, the distinctive sound still able to be heard above the din, while Thebus and the others drew theirs, too. Not one of them looked back. They all stood there in the open, no gate before them, unprotected. Welcoming. Ready to embrace their fate.
“MEN OF ESCALON!” Lewis shouted. “FOR FREEDOM!”
They all let out a great shout, as suddenly, Lewis broke into a sprint. He would not wait for the enemy—instead, he would rush out to greet them. His men followed close behind, a few men against a million, racing toward battle, toward death, and toward the glorious ecstasy of honor.